


Cicatrization

by Flanemoji



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Bad coping mechanisms, Blood and Gore, Descriptions of Blood, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, References to Depression, Self-Destruction, Violence, canon character death, depictions of violence, descriptions of vomit, more tags to be added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25991197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanemoji/pseuds/Flanemoji
Summary: He can’t remember anything except the pain, and the last image in his mind is Richie.Richie, dangling lifelessly in the air.Richie, his hands gripping Eddie’s arms so tight it might leave bruises.Richie, with blood (his blood) splattered across his face and glasses. Begging through sobs for him to stay.Looking around, Eddie realizes he must be somewhere in the Barrens.--OR, Eddie Kaspbrak wakes up with sewage in his mouth, no hole in his chest, and a lot of questions.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 35
Kudos: 80





	1. Prologue: The Barrens

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a gift to my lovely friend Bones, who came up with this idea in an extensive dream she had, and then gave me the OK to write a story for it <3 I hope y'all enjoy this crazy ride with only half a plan!
> 
> Follow Bones' work at bonesbunns.com

* * *

**Cicatrization** (cic′a·tri·za′tion)  
_noun_

To heal or become healed by the formation of scar tissue.

* * *

It feels like Eddie got hit by a truck.

No, scratch that.

It feels like a sixteen-wheeler ran him over, backed up, hit him _ again _ , and then dragged him down the I-78 for two hours.

Body parts he’s forgotten about since his track days in college are  _ aching _ , a constant throb of pain with a ten-out-of-ten focal point dead in the center of his chest. Pain radiates from there, like a sun, except the rays are giant fucking knives that are stabbing every nerve ending in all of his limbs. His skin hurts, his muscles hurt, his bones hurt… even his  _ hair _ hurts, Jesus  _ Christ… _

Eddie groans, and the vibration of his voice in his throat elicits an electric shock on the nerves of his voice box. It takes monumental effort to open his eyes, the light filtering through the leaves feeling like lasers burning his retinas. Holy  _ fuck, _ what did he do to be in so much pain? It’s been a  _ very _ long time since he went on a drinking bender so intense to end with such a bad hangover the next morning. He swims in the fog of his mind, trying to piece together blurry memories so that it will all make sense. There’s darkness and cold water, rocks, teeth, bright, glowing blue light...

He gets hit again, except this time it’s a metaphorical brick house. 

“Richie!” Eddie gasps, shoots to sit straight up and clutches at the invisible hole in his chest. The movement causes a wave of vertigo so intense that his stomach turns over on itself, a wave of nausea that pushes him onto his knees just so he can gag. A dribble of thick, black gunk oozes from his mouth, smelling like rotten blood and garbage.

That’s when Eddie really starts to retch in earnest.

The vomit is black and frothy, sticks and leaves and ugly clots of blood interspersed throughout. When he realizes the dark color is probably due to swallowing Greywater, he throws up even  _ harder _ , feeling as sick as that time he got food poisoning from an Oysters Rockefeller at a work event. 

It’s an eternity of throwing up before it’s over, leaving Eddie heaving for air through choppy wheezes. He can’t remember anything except the pain, and the last image in his mind is Richie. 

Richie, dangling lifelessly in the air.

Richie, his hands gripping Eddie’s arms so tight it might leave bruises.

Richie, with blood ( _ his blood _ ) splattered across his face and glasses. Begging through sobs for him to stay. 

Looking around, Eddie realizes he must be somewhere in the Barrens. He shakily gets to his feet, swaying when the world swirls around him. He stumbles toward a study tree, leaning on it to keep himself upright. 

“Richie?” He calls out, and his voice is rough and cracked, like he hasn’t used it in a while. He coughs and tries again.

“Rich? You out here?” The question brings a sense of dread, because no answer is satisfactory.

If Richie  _ is _ out here, it means he stayed down in the Caverns with Eddie. How long had he been down there? How long had he been…?

He can’t finish the sentence. 

If Richie isn’t out here, then where is he? How did they get out? Did they defeat It?

It’s too many questions with too few answers, and just taking two steps forward occupies so much of Eddie’s mental and physical capacity that he decides it best to make them for Future Eddie’s problem. He shifts his focus instead to figuring out where he is, and hopefully running into one of the Loser’s in the process.

Eddie isn’t sure for how long he wanders round, having to take breaks to catch his bearings and rest his weak muscles, but he finally reaches a creek, and that’s a good sign. It stirs up some familiar, boggy memories. Maybe he can follow it in one direction and run into the Quarry, or at least somewhere near town.

He crouches down and splashes some water on his face, trying to rub off some of the grime and crust that’s dried there. Another bout of nausea hits him, but he manages to keep the bile down this time. He peels the bandage off his face, surprised that it’s stuck this whole time, even if it's filthy and soaked in sewage. In fact… everything on him is soaked in sewage.

_ Eugh. _

Eddie takes great care to not look too hard at the wobbly reflection in the water, too scared of what he might see there. He’s running his hands through his hair, grimacing at the sticky feeling in his fingers, when he hears rustling in the branches around him.

“Richie?” No Answer. “Bevvie? Hello?” Eddie looks around, but is met with more silence. He figures it must be an animal wandering around in the brush.

He goes back to throwing water on himself, repeating a mantra of  _ “It’s clean, it’s clean, it's fine,”  _ when the rustling starts back up.

Pinpricks of anxiety start to crawl along Eddie’s spine, like someone is watching him. He’s about to stand up and shout at the animal in hopes of scaring it away, but when he turns around, he’s met with a different animal than he expected.

Standing there between the trees, blood dripping down his face and teeth bared, stands Henry Bowers. 

“Oh  _ shit. _ ”


	2. The Kissing Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> destructive behavior trigger warning here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta lads... sorry for typos!

Richie Tozier is a masochist.

He must be, because what fucking, self-hating  _ idiot _ takes himself to the place where he silently immortilized his love for his now-dead best friend when he was thirteen, only two days after watching said best friend die in his arms, only to leave his corpse to rot in the underground sewers of his nightmarish home town?

_ Ding! Ding! Ding!  _ You got it, Richard Fucking Tozier. 

But hating himself in this moment is sort-of magnificent, because Richie hasn’t felt a goddamned thing since the moment Ben and Mike let him crumble on asphalt of Neibolt street. His friends had held him while he screamed until his throat was raw, until only dry sobs wracked his body. He’d stared at the crumbling ground, dug his fingers into the concrete with the thought that maybe, if he scratched hard enough, he could open up the world and bring Eddie to at least die in the sunlight, warm and surrounded by them all. The sewers were dirty, damp and cold, so dark… Eddie hated the dark… he hated being dirty… he hated it,  _ he hated it. _

_ “Richie… you gonna jump with us?”  _

_ Richie hadn’t even registered they were at the Quarry now, only Bill left alone on the ledge with him.  _

_ “I’ll jump with you, if you want?” _

_ Richie manages a shake of his head, watches Bill disappear over the edge of the rocks.  _

Richie had fallen backwards into the water, much to the horror of the rest of his friends. It was a rush of adrenaline that reminded him he was alive, and by the time he sank into the water, air bubbles floating to the top, he’d already lamented the fact he hadn’t hit a boulder on the way down.

The remaining Losers did what they could to put their broken little puzzle of a family together-- but two missing pieces will always be missing pieces, no matter how nice the picture is to look at. 

The past 48 hours since then have been a grey-colored blur. He was wet from swimming, and then Beverly was drying his hair in his hotel room, talking mindlessly about how she could snip the dried out ends for him. Ben, in that soft and loving way of his, held his hand while Bev untangled his curls. They tried, as best they could, to keep loving looks away from each other, but Richie could see them anyway. 

When he looked out the window again, it was nighttime, and Mike was trying to entice him into eating a slice of pizza. Richie nibbled on a piece of garlic bread instead. It tasted like cardboard, just the same way everything did. 

Bill insisted he sleep in his room, and Richie complied, because he knew all the ceilings in the inn looked the same, so why did it matter from which room he’d stare at them from? 

He didn’t ask what they did with Eddie’s stuff, and they didn’t tell them. While they helped Richie pack his rental car, Ben had silently placed a soft, grey bundle in his arms, which Richie had held during the entire goodbye session. 

He sat on a bench while everyone got their own stuff together. The four of them had stood a little ways off, talking amongst themselves. Beverly walked over and held his hand in her own. 

“Do you want to come back with Ben and I? We can drop your rental car off, and Ben’s place has enough room for all of us.”

The idea made Richie so sick he could barf right there.

Instead, he smiled and shook his head. “Nah, ‘course not. I wouldn’t want to impose on you lovebirds! What if Benny Boy wants some well-deserved road head?” 

Beverly hadn’t been amused, but before she could open her mouth to retort, or be mad at him, he’d hugged her tight to his chest. “Love ya, Bevvie, let me know when you guys get home.”

He said his well wishes to the Losers and got into his car before anyone could say a word, because a mask made of paper and duct tape could only last so long. 

He sits in his car in front of the inn, and then he sits in his car on the kissing bridge, as if he teleported there. He doesn’t remember actually starting the car, or driving it, or stopping it. He was just there, and now he’s here. His hands cramp from how hard he’s gripping the wheel.

If you’d asked Richie why he drove to the Kissing Bridge, he might make a joke. It might be a bad one, about how he was gonna throw himself off the edge, or about how he hates himself, but the reality is onew that he’s too scared to even face himself.

Before he can register what he’s really doing, he’s standing in front of the rotted planks, keys in hand. He doesn’t need to look for it, because once he’d remembered that he’d done it, Richie knew exactly where it was. Four steps left from the middle, three planks down, next to a notch that runs through a worn letter S. It’s there, faded and falling apart, but there.

_ R+E _

There’s a metaphor there, but Richie doesn’t have the mental capacity to work it out. 

He kneels on the ground and starts to carve, rough pushes of his keys into soddy wood, because this means nothing, but it’s all he has… so it’s everything. He grips his keys so hard the teeth dig into his fingers with ugly red indents, takes his time renewing the blurred edges of his proclamation. He takes a breath and starts on the  _ E. _

He carves the first line.  _ You’re braver than you think. _

He strokes sideways.  _ Did you see? I did it, Rich! I did it! _

A tiny curl of wood shaving falls into the grass.  _ Eddie, Eds, stay with me, buddy, stay with me! _

He stares at the finished product and thinks back to the hot summer day that he’d originally carved it. He’d been so scared, with shaky hands and sweaty palms, but so full of love. He’d had no outlet, because the urge to scream it into open space of the quarry was not as strong as the fear and disgust he felt. But he needed an outlet, anything that could hold all the love and trust and care he had, and since he couldn't pour it back into its source, he’d locked it away and immortalized it the only way he could think how to. 

Now, staring at the fresh carvings, only guilt and regret fill the empty space between his lungs. A big gaping hole of what was left, of what stayed down in the sewers. 

Richie closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the bridge, inhaling shakily. He’s a goddamn coward. He always has been, and he always will be. He tells himself if he’d just had more time, he would have told him, he would have told him  _ everything,  _ but even now, Richie knows it’s a lie.

It stays locked away in the cistern, floating in the Deadlights with Betty Ripson and Georgie. 

If there was anything left of Richie, he might cry. But he can’t even do that. 

He curses, slams his hand on the wood and takes another breath, tries to become adjusted to the boulder of guilt that lives in his chest now. He thinks of how he could lay down here in the road and disappear, or how there’s rushing water below him that could wipe everything away and leave him at the bottom.

_ “Richie!” _

A full body shiver wracks his body as the familiar voice haunts him, echoing in the empty space around him. He shuts his eyes even tighter, squeezing them hard.

“ _ Riiichie!!” _

“Goddamn it,” Richie digs his forehead into the wood, hoping a splinter might lodge itself through his brain and give him an impromptu lobotomy. He wants to forget that voice, he wants to  _ forget it. _

“Richard  _ FUCKING _ TOZIER!”

“ _ WHAT?!” _ Richie jumps to his feet, fuming, his voice cracking. “Can’t a guy get a  _ fuckin’ _ break?! He’s dead stop fucking haunting me! Stop playing these fucking  _ tricks _ on me!”

Richie opens his eyes and looks down the road, his chest heaving with his effort to breathe. Is it not enough that Eddie died in his fucking arms? Does he have to spend the rest of his life not only with that image embedded in his brain, but he has to be followed by his voice too?!

Richie is about to start screaming again, but whatever he was going to say shrivels up and dies in his throat, because down the road, running towards him frantically, is Eddie Kaspbrak.

Maybe he did throw himself off the side of the bridge after all.

Richie looks around, tries to find some sign of this being Hell. He pinches his thigh, shoves his key into his palm. The pain sparks up his arm.

Eddie is still screaming at him, but the noise has since muffled into nothingness, because Richie can’t fucking focus on anything. 

It feels like it takes days for Eddie to get near enough for Richie to understand what he’s saying, but it happens. 

“Duck, duck,  _ duck, _ **_duck_ ** _ you stupid motherfucker! _ ”

Wait,  _ what _ ?

Eddie reaches him at full Kaspbrak speed, hands clutching the front of Richie’s t-shirt. He yanks Richie sideways and spins them around, screeching. “Duck your  _ fucking head,  _ you shit-for-brains oversided  _ muppet _ !”

He opens his mouth to ask why, stumbling backwards as Eddie pulls him, but he catches a figure in his peripheral vision coming at them just as fast as Eddie had been. Richie’s arms curl protectively around Eddie as he ducks them both down, only nearly missing a swinging fist. Richie reaches an elbow out towards the solid mass and  _ shoves _ as he shoots upwards, his shoulder connecting with a jaw. The figure lets out an inhuman growl of frustration as it falls backwards, Richie falling on his ass into Eddie’s arms. 

Richie’s breath is coming in short little huffs, but Eddie is trying to get him up and moving anyway. “We gotta go, we gotta  _ go.” _

“Who the fuck is that?” Richie is in a daze, and he wonders for a second why  _ that’s _ the first question that he asks. 

“It’s Henry Bowers, so let’s fucking  _ move, _ Trashmouth.”

Richie stares at the body on the floor as it groans and sits up, Bowers’ ugly mug staring murderously at them. “Oh God, I really  _ am _ in Hell.”

“Okay, first off, you’re not dead. Second of all, thanks for assuming I would go to fucking Hell, asshole. Now let’s  _ move, _ can’t you see he’s waking up?!”

Richie feels like a fucking stone statue, because Henry Bowers, who he  _ killed _ with an  _ axe, _ is chasing Eddie Kaspbrak, who was  _ imapled  _ before his very eyes. What other explanation could there fucking be?

“I don’t know, Richie, okay? I’m just as lost as you are, but if we don’t get up and  _ run _ , you  _ are _ going to be dead, and I am going to die a  _ second _ time, so let’s  _ go. _ ” 

The casualty of it all makes Richie bark a laugh, staring at Bowers’ slow moving body as Eddie drags them away. “Is that your car?”

Richie nods. He isn’t sure how he finds his voice. “D-do you want me to drive?”

Eddie nods back and gets into the passenger side. “Fast.” 

Richie grips the steering wheel and turns the key into the ignition. The motor rumbles to life. They sit in silence for six heartbeats. Richie counts them. 

Eddie says, “Richie? You need to drive, Bowers is getting up.” 

And Richie, tired of this nightmare, slams his foot on the pedal so hard he touches the floor of the car. Eddie screams, Richie makes a sharp turn towards the left, and everything goes blissfully black. 

* * *

Richie blinks his eyes open, groaning at the way the light hurts his eyes. There’s warm sticky liquid dripping on his forehead, and there’s a sun kissed angel holding his head steady.

It’s lips are moving frantically, but everything just sounds like buzzing. He smiles and his eyes flutter shut again. 

_ “I’m sorry, Richie.” _

The voice doesn’t sound very sorry at all.

* * *

Richie snaps forward in his chair, his cheek stinging something awful. “ _ Owwww.”  _ His vision swims, wobbly hands reaching to cradle his face. 

Eddie is staring down at him, big worried doe eyes trained on him like it’s all he cares about. Richie’s chest stings. 

“I must be in heaven, now.” His voice sounds like it’s coming through a muffled filter.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You’re not  _ dead _ , but you might have given yourself a concussion, move over and hand me your phone.” 

Richie ends up in the passenger seat, with no idea how. He rests his head against it, looking dazedly as Eddie starts adjusting mirrors and taps on the screen of Richie’s phone. 

He drifts off again with a smile, the sound of Eddie’s voice lulling him to sleep.


	3. The Townhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy ;)  
> triggers to mind this chapter:  
> use of the f-slur, descriptions of blood, mentions of death !

Eddie has never craved a bottle of Adderall as much as he has right now. He could use some Oxy, too, but that craving never really goes away, now does it?

The fact of the matter still stands, though, that Eddie has never been very good at multitasking, something that is painfully apparent right now while he juggles a half-unconscious Richie, a broken car, and a phone with only two tries left to unlock before it shuts down for ten minutes.

“Richie, I need you to _stay_ awake, okay?” Eddie shakes at his shoulder again, doing his best not to jostle his head. Richie grumbles in protest, hiding his face into the side of the passenger seat. He starts talking, but it’s just an incoherent jumble of words that makes Eddie clench the wheel a little harder. He takes a deep breath and counts to five.

“Richie,” If only he was more aware, his childhood best friend might appreciate the level of patience that Eddie is exhibiting at this moment, “I need you to tell me your phone password, okay? I’m gonna let you sleep, but not right now.”

“You promise, Spaghetti?” Richie turns his head, voice slurring, batting his wide blue eyes like a stubborn child. 

“...Yes. Now tell me the password.” Eddie almost feels bad for lying, until he glances up from Richie’s eyes to the spot on his forehead that has _finally_ stopped dribbling blood. A broken promise can be forgiven right now, he thinks. 

Richie smiles wide, and it's unfair for him to look so goddamn handsome in this moment of crisis. “S’Mom’s birthday.” 

Eddie isn’t sure _how_ he remembers Maggie Tozier’s birthday without any prompting, but he isn’t about to start being ungrateful for miracles. Richie’s home screen springs to life, every inch of it riddled with apps and no folders. Eddie clicks his tongue in disgust. 

“Jesus christ, Tozier, how do you have a notification bubble on _every_ single application?” Eddie is mumbling to himself, but his heart still skips a beat when Richie laughs. He goes to Richie’s contacts, thankful that who he needs is the most recent caller. He’s about to tap on the name when Richie’s hand, which is blissfully wrapped around Eddie’s own, squeezes gently. It’s been like that for a full three minutes. Eddie tried to untangle their fingers once, but Richie made a sound like a puppy who was being left alone in a cardboard box, and in a shoddy attempt to keep him awake, Eddie had sternly stated he would only allow it if Richie kept his eyes open. 

It hadn’t really worked, but Eddie still wasn’t about to let go. 

“Eds…”

“Don’t call me that.”

“ _Eds_ ,” He insists. “We've got company.” 

“Whaa- _AAH_ ! _Fuck!_ ” A loud bang on the driver’s side window has Eddie shooting up out of his chair like a cartoon character. 

_“Get the fuck out you little shits!”_ Bowers slams his fists on the window, shaking the whole damn door. His teeth are bared like a feral dog, and with the way he’s hissing and spitting, he might as well be. Eddie stiffens his spine and doesn’t think twice about the way he turns his body to keep Richie behind him, as if his slender frame could hide those broad shoulders and big arms.

_Jesus. Now’s not the time._

Richie, who despite a probable concussion and at least two traumatic events back-to-back under his belt, is still Trashmouth at heart, lifts himself up off the seat and flips Henry the bird with both hands. To Eddie’s horror, he doesn’t stop there.

“Oh, go _fuck_ yerself, Bowers, you undead _asshole_!” 

Now _that_ really gets him going.

Eddie curses and yanks his hand out of Richie’s so he can fumble with the keys. “Goddammit, Richie, are you insane?!”

Richie laughs in response and slumps back in his chair, unfazed by the way Bowers is now _body slamming_ himself into the driver’s side car door, screeching slurs and obscenities at the both of them. 

“You think I won’t pay back the fuckin’ favor you paid me you disgusting little _faggot!_ You think you can run now?!” 

Eddie’s entire heart drops into his ass and he stomps his foot on the pedal, teeth clenched as the car groans and rumbles to life. The tires whir into the dirt and the car jerks sideways, still stuck half-way into a ditch. Bowers continues to yell, his pounding into the glass, blood smearing the window with every new punch. 

Eddie reaches over and buckles Richie’s seatbelt, muttering to himself.. “We’re definitely gonna need to go to a hospital after this.” He throws the gear shift into reverse and looks behind them. The road they’d swerved off is at a steep incline, but nothing undrivable. “Hold on, Richie.”

Richie giggles again, gripping the sides of his seat like a toddler having way too much fun. Eddie thinks he might throw up again.

The car jolts with the weight of something heavy on the hood, and when Eddie looks back towards the front, Bowers is spread across it, banging his head into the windshield. 

“I think the bitch is broken.” Richie comments idly.

“Well, you _did_ split his brain open with an axe.”

Richie snorts, tossing his head back to laugh, and Eddie’s lips twitch upwards. And it’s possible, that joking about axe-murder while your undead bully tries to kill you (when you’ve both already died once) and your best friend (who has a concussion) is the wrong way to deal with things, but…

Eddie and Richie have never really been that great at coping. 

Eddie grips the steering wheel with both hands and takes a deep breath in, focusing on the feel of his ribs expanding. He lets it out and shifts the gear back into park. He starts to push on the gas with his foot, letting the engine warm up. He can feel the wheels spinning against the mud, reverberating throughout the car, sending a buzz up his spine that tingles him all the way to his finger tips. With one last look at Bower’s, Eddie puts the car back into reverse.

“ _Jesus, FUCK!”_ Richie hollars, his hand shooting up to grab onto the handle at the top of the door. Eddie leans forward toward the wheel, opposing to the momentum of the car rushing backwards. The car clears the incline, hovering a centimeter in the air, jolting them both out of their seats. Eddie slams onto the breaks and the car skids a few feet backwards, no doubt leaving burnt rubber marks on the old road. Bowers is nowhere in sight. 

“Looks like them Duke boys are at it again!” Richie wheezes, resting his forehead against the dashboard. Eddie reaches out and puts his hand against Richie's chest, pushing back. 

“Keep your head up, against the headrest.” Richie leans back and his eyes flutter. 

“I think… I’m gonna pass out, Eds.” He sounds breathless.

Eddie curses and slams the button to turn the radio on. The opening riff for _If you Want Blood (You’ve Got It)_ blares through its speakers. Eddie spins the volume dial until the sound waves are vibrating the frame of the car and he shoves it into drive. 

_It’s criminal! There ought to be a law!_

They lurch forward, tires screeching as they speed down the road of the kissing bridge _way_ over the speed limit. The trees are a blur of green and blue as they race down the winding road, each curve and turn another excuse for the car to tilt off it’s side wheels. 

_If you want blood, you got it!_

_Blood on the streets!_

_Blood on the rocks!_

_Blood in the gutter!_

_Every last drop!_

They only make it to the middle of the second verse when Eddie stops the car in the parking lot of the Derry Town House. The abrupt silence that slaps them in the face when he shuts the whole car off feels like whiplash, his heart racing and his blood pumping. His hands are still gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles are blanched against his tan skin. 

There’s a loud, blaring sound from somewhere in the car and both Richie and Eddie scream. 

It takes a second for Eddie to realize it’s Richie’s phone ringing, buzzing around on the floor by his feet. He releases a breath and reaches down for it to see who it is. The face that pops up on screen makes him laugh, dry and without humor, because this town never lets up on the uncanny coincidences. 

The phone rings three times more before Eddie can work himself up enough to answer. it.

“Richie? You haven’t answered any of my messages!” Beverly’s concerned voice filters though the speaker. “It’s been _hours_ since you left--”

“Hi, Bevvie.” Eddie smiles, his body filling with relief. 

She reacts about as well as Eddie expects. She gasps and the phone goes staticy with background noise. She probably dropped it. There’s a deep, concerned voice in the background mixed with Beverly’s higher-than-usual tone. “Oh… Oh this isn’t fair.” She sounds so scared, so hurt, and Eddie’s chest constricts. “I can’t--”

“I know this is a lot, and I don’t have an explanation--” Eddie starts to talk, interrupted by the ringtone of an incoming FaceTime call. He takes a deep breath and presses the green button. 

Beverly’s terrified face comes into view, her eyebrows scrunched together. She goes through a whole card deck of emotions: shock, confusion, disbelief… Eddie offers a little awkward half smile. This is the first time he’s seen himself in clear view, a tiny window view of himself in the corner of the screen. He looks as shitty as he feels, and that’s _without_ the details. 

“It’s me.” 

“It...it can’t be…” Beverly gasps, her image shaking on the screen. “I saw you… we all saw you!”

“I know. And it happened.” Eddie feels like he could cry, looking at Bev’s face. She _is_ crying. “I’m sorry, I wish I could explain what’s going on but I can’t.” 

“Eddie…” Beverly’s voice cracks, breaking straight through Eddie’s heart. “Eddie, this can’t be real.”

Eddie laughs, a sound that has absolutely no humor. “It is, and I need you guys to meet me at the Townhouse. I’m with Richie and I’m pretty sure he has a concussion.”

“He what?” Beverly is talking in a wispy sort of way, like a woman who doesn’t believe what's happening in front of her. Eddie can’t blame her. If he was in her position, he probably wouldn’t believe it either, but he trusted Beverly to listen.

“I’ll tell you everything when you get here. Can you call everyone and get them to come back? I really need to keep an eye on Richie.” 

“I ain’t no kid, Spaghetti!” Richie yells, shoving himself into Eddie’s space. He lays his head on Eddie’s shoulder and smiles wide. “Oh, hey Bevvie! I didn’t think I’d get to see you again after I died. I’m glad I can.” He hums and closes his eyes, frowning like the kid he just said he wasn’t when Eddie taps on his forehead to get him to open them. Beverly gasps again.

“What did I say, Richie? Eyes stay _open_.” 

“Rich… what did you do?” 

Eddie feels terribly guilty about the entire situation. He hates to put all this responsibility on Beverly, on all of the Losers, actually, but who else is he supposed to turn to in this sort of situation? Even if it’s only been a few days since he even remembered they’d existed, it was as if now he couldn’t function without them. He hadn’t even known there’d been such a big gap in his life until they’d all fit into it, taking up space and making him feel whole. How easily he’d jumped straight into the fray for them… he can’t think of anyone in his life that he’d put himself into such danger for. He thumbs at the band still somehow attached to his left ring finger.

_Not anyone._

The weight of Richie’s head somehow feels monumental, now. He shifts uncomfortably under it, trying to get himself back on track. 

“I’m sending a message to everyone now.” Beverly’s voice cuts through his thoughts again. “Ben and I are about twenty minutes, so it’ll take us that long to get back. I don’t know about anyone else, but they shouldn’t be too far off. 

Eddie breathes, widening his smile a little. “Good, great. I’ll see you soon.”

Beverly looks like she’s debating what she wants to say. In the end, she doesn’t say anything other than goodbye, and hangs up the phone.

It’s a very long twenty minutes. Possibly the longest twenty minutes of Eddie’s life. Second life? He doesn’t fucking now.

He almost thinks Bev and the others _aren’t_ coming, which really starts to get his anxiety kicking. Richie keeps drifting in and out of sleep, complaining that Eddie had promised to let him nap later.

“Yeah, exactly, Tozier. I said _later._ ”

“You said that _so_ many laters ago!” 

At one point, Eddie tried to get Richie up and out of the car, but Richie had stood for three seconds and swayed one time too many for Eddie’s liking. They stayed in the car with the doors open and the radio blasting eighties rock music. It stirs up memories of when they were teenagers, spinning around the clubhouse while Bev played the local stations top hits. He remembers how Richie would put the headphones of his walkman between the two of them, so they could listen to a tinny-version of music filter through the speakers. 

His solution to the current problem at hand is to tell Richie he’s tpp stupid to finish a level of candy crush, over and over, so that Richie, with his persistent need to prove Eddie wrong, will stay awake and swipe candies on a phone screen. He realizes staring at a tiny computer probably isn’t good for someone who may have a concussion, but he’ll take what he can get. 

He’s picking at loose threads on his filthy sweater when the sound of an engine startles him into reality. The car pulls up right next to them, the person in the passenger seat barely waiting for it to come to a full stop before they throw the door open. Beverly comes rushing out, nearly tripping on her own feet as she steps onto the asphalt. She catches one glance of Eddie and bursts into tears, running in his direction.

“No no _no,_ don’t hug me I’m drenched in sewage!” Eddie shrieks, backing up against Richie’s car.

“I don’t give a flying _fuck_ what you’re covered in Eddie Kaspbrak!” Beverly screams right back, slamming into him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She squeezes him so tight he thinks she might crack his scapulae, and even if he protested before she touched him, he’s hugging her right back. She pulls back and holds him at an arm's distance away, staring down at the black spot that spreads from his sternum outward. She’s got dirt smeared on her cheek from hugging him. “Oh God, it really is you…”

Beverly looks up to meet his eyes with a gaze so intensely full of love and relief that Eddie wants the world to swallow him up again, so that none of them have to experience the trainwreck of emotions that seems to follow seeing him alive again. She breaks out into a radiant, wet smile and pulls him in again. 

“I thought…”

“Bevvie!” Richie pokes his head out from the car door at the same time that Ben exits the drivers side of his. They exchange a look, Ben rushing over to take her place in Eddie’s embrace while Beverly goes to inspect Richie’s head. Ben wraps him up in a big bear hug that makes Eddie think of home. 

“Holy shit? _Holy SHIT!”_ Another voice cuts through the empty parking lot, everyone turning their head towards the sound. Mike and Bill are staring from their own car a little ways down the lot, and they take no time to jog over. 

And just like that, the six of them are back together again, exchanging shocked and teary words in the parking lot of an abandoned bed and breakfast. 

His heart aches for Stan. 

It’s an overwhelming few moments. Mike holds Eddie’s face in his big warm hands, looking equal parts fascinated and slightly terrified. They pepper him with questions he doesn’t have any answers to, like how he escaped from the sewers or how his chest doesn’t have a giant hole in it. 

“I don’t know,” Eddie admits, scratching the back of his head. “But I think it has to do with more weird clown-turtle shit.” 

“How?” Mike shakes his head, rubbing his palm over his curly hair. “We destroyed It.” 

“Or so we thought,” Bill chimes in, rubbing the stubble on his chin. 

“Bowers is alive, too.” Eddie adds, everyone staring back at him, bug-eyed.

“But..” Mike starts, glancing towards Richie, who thanks to Ben and Bill, is now standing up outside of the car. They flank him so that he can’t sway. Ben opens his mouth to supply the rest of the sentence. 

“Richie put an axe in his head.” 

“And a giant alien space clown skewered me in a sewer, yet here we are.” Eddie gestures to his middle. “You say that like it’s the strangest thing to happen since Mike called us.”

Everyone is uncomfortably silent, avoiding the big red patch of stained fabric on Eddie’s stomach. Guilt settles on his shoulders, because maybe that was a little too casual of a way to confirm he had in fact died. 

“So you do remember.” Bill is the first one to speak, giving him a once over. Eddie rubs at his sternum. 

“Yeah, I do. It’s blurry, but I remember some of it.” 

_Richie, floating upwards into the Deadlights._

_The freezing numbness that spread through his body once there was nothing left in the middle._

_His friends screams echoing off the cavern walls._

_Richie’s shaky fingers wiping blood from his face._

“Eddie…” Beverly speaks up, looking between all the Losers before she settles her eyes on him. “Have you…” Her gaze drifts down towards his chest. 

“No… I haven’t.” 

Everyone goes silent again. Eddie thinks the only feeling left in him is dread. 

He takes a deep breath and pulls his shirt and jacket over his head. 

There’s a jagged line that cuts straight from his collarbone to his belly button that tapers at the edges. It’s much wider in the center, with raised, white edges on the border. Eddie raises a hesitant hand towards the center, meeting newly scarred over skin. 

“Holy shit.” Bill repeats. 

Richie bends at the middle and promptly throws up everything in his stomach. 

* * *

“Yeah, yeah, only a few stitches.” Mike’s voice fills up the room. Bill has him on speakerphone, Beverly and Eddie sitting on the bed as he paces back and forth. 

“And no concussion?” Eddie cuts in.

“No concussion.” Mike confirms.

It had been quite the feat to convince Richie to go to the hospital. He’d refused to acknowledge the near hour-long span of time with Eddie where he was nearly unconscious, and insisted that he was perfectly fine.

_“You have a giant cut on your forehead!” Eddie waves his hands around in exasperation. “You might need stitches!”_

_Richie rolls his eyes and waves his hands back dismissively. “I think you’re just overreacting, Doc. Maybe_ ** _you’re_** _the one who should get their head checked!”_

_Beverly steps in between the both of them, jabbing her finger nearly into the tip of Richie’s nose. You could barely notice the head of height difference between them._

_“Richard Tozier. If you don’t get your_ **_ass_ ** _in_ **_that car_ ** _, I will personally drag you by that rat’s nest of a head down to the hospital myself.”_

_There had been no more discussions after that._

“Oh, thank God.” Beverly breathes a sigh of relief, flopping backwards onto the bed. Bill takes Mike off speakerphone and steps out of the room to continue a conversation. 

Eddie, now freshly showered and in a pair of Bill’s sweatpants, lays himself down next to Bev. They stare up at the ceiling side by side. 

“How long have I been gone?” Eddie speaks to a crack that runs from the center light to the edge of the room. 

“Not long, about two days.” He can see her turn her head to stare at him in her periphery. Eddie nods and starts twisting his fingers together. There’s a beat of silence before Bev speaks up again. “Did it hurt?”

Eddie and Beverly had always had a special sort of bond, coming from single-parent households of insane caregivers. They shared a lot of secrets, secrets even the rest of the Losers didn’t know about, because Alvin Marsh and Sonia Kaspbrak were two sides of the same shitty coin. Beverly could get Eddie to talk about things he never even wanted to remember, let alone speak them into the existence of the physical realm, and Beverly in turn shared with him the dark, locked up memories that she kept tucked away, that reminded her how to be strong. Beverly always gave him the strength to stand tall, to think of himself beyond just Sonia Kaspbrak’s little boy. Beverly had given him the Monster Killer.

He wonders how different his life might be, if he hadn’t had to forget everything he’d ever learned from her. He notices a fading bruise around her neck, much older than any of the ones from their time in the sewers, and he wonders if her life might’ve been different too. 

“Yes.” Eddie’s whispered voice still seems too loud for the empty room. 

He opens his mouth, his tongue heavy with the words he wants to say. He wants to tell her that it wasn’t the physical pain that had stuck with him, even when he woke up. That had faded so quickly in comparison, his entire body going numb only a few seconds after the initial hit. He’d felt so much pain and then none, all at once, blissfully numb and terribly cold. He wants to tell her how he couldn’t move, but he could still hear them all, even as the darkness and the cold seeped into his form. 

“I think… I’ll hear the way you screamed in my head for the rest of my life.” Is what comes out instead, because Eddie can’t even begin to explain it all away. Beverly’s entire face twists into something so full of sadness that it settles in his ribcage like a physical weight. Tears start to roll down her cheeks and she sucks in a shuddering breath. 

“Eddie… I-I’m sorry that we--” 

Eddie shakes his head and bites back the sting he feels in his own eyes. He reaches out and pulls Beverly against his chest, holding her tight, cheek pressed to her head. Her fiery hair obscures his vision. 

“Don’t you fucking apologize for surviving, Bevvie.” He’d lost an entire lifetime with the Losers, and he wasn’t about to waste what he had left with them letting them think he had any feeling other than love for them, this family that he hadn’t known he’d lost. 

The door opens behind them and Eddie lifts his head to see Bill staring at them, brows furrowed in confusion. “What did I miss?” 

“Like, twenty years of regret in three sentences, give or take.” Eddie responds, smiling wide when Beverly chokes on a wet laugh. 

“I was _trying_ to apologize for leaving you.” Beverly snaps, absolutely no anger in her words. She grips the front of Eddie’s shirt in her tight fists. 

“And _I’m_ telling you that you don’t have to.” Eddie insists. 

Something nudges Eddie between his shoulder blades. He looks back and notices Bill is motioning for him to move, so he does, making space for him on the bed. Bill curls up there and presses his forehead to Eddie’s back, one hand on Eddie’s arm. 

Bill Denbrough, the man who carries the weight of every mistake on his shoulders, Eddie’s oldest friend, whispers quietly into Eddie’s shirt.

“We didn’t want to.” 

“I know. I don’t blame you, Bill.” 

And he doesn’t. How could he blame any of them for staying alive, for not letting all their efforts go in vain? 

Bill doesn’t respond and the three of them stay in the bed, curled up the way they used to when the seven of them would have sleepovers in a pillow-filled living room. Exhaustion hits Eddie all at once, like a freight train knocking him down. He settles down, sandwiched between two of his best friends, and reluctantly closes his eyes. 

He drifts with the prayer that he opens them again. 

* * *

It’s dark, so awfully dark. 

There’s dried blood on the floor, splattered all around him. It’s caked on the glass that encapsulates him, smeared on his arms and his clothes, or at least it feels like it is, crusted and flaking. He can barely see his hand in front of him.

Eddie reaches out until he hits something solid, spreading his palms against it, the feel of slimy fluid making him gag. He gets up to his feet, feeling shakier than ever, and tries to understand his surroundings. He can’t take a step without hitting something solid, his breathing picking up when he realizes he can feel no openings. 

“H-Hello?” He calls out, but his voice doesn’t sound like his own. 

He notices that there’s a hint of blue light filtering in through the red in front of him. He pulls his jacket sleeve over his fist and starts to wipe away at the blood. It smears and spreads, but eventually, he’s able to get enough of it off to see that there’s a mirror facing him only a few feet away.

A blood soaked child with a mop of curly hair stares back at him.

* * *

Eddie jolts awake, shooting straight up with a gasp. It jostles Beverly and Bill, the latter falling off the side of the bed with a shocked yelp. 

Bill rubs at the side of his head just as Mike opens the door, a newly bandaged Richie and a concerned Ben standing right behind him. 

“Did I miss a threesome?” Richie shoves himself into the room.

“I saw the kid from the Jade.” Eddie answers, looking around frantically. “I saw him in a room with mirrors… well I didn’t see him.. I-I was him.” 

Bill stares up at him, caution written all over his face. “You mean Dean?” Guilt is written all over his face. “It killed him in the Funhouse at the carnival...” 

Eddie stares at his hands, thinking of the blood smeared walls that had encircled him. “It killed me, too.” 

Mike stares between the two of them, his hand still holding the doorknob. “...You don’t think he could be…” 

“Alive?” Eddie meets his gaze for only a moment, then back down to his open palms. His heart thumps loudly against his chest, against the new scar tissue that lives on his skin. 

“I… think he might be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EWqTym2cQU here is the song that plays during the car scene ;)
> 
> Drop a comment if you like please!


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